Only Half Himself
by tartan robes
Summary: He had promised her their retirement. A short one-shot on a potential future for Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes.


He had promised her their retirement, and she had agreed. They would be lonely without company and they had already spent the greater portion of their lives together. They knew each other. They worked well together. It was the most sensible arrangement and they were most sensible people.

But then he began to slip.

Small things at first. He'd forget to polish a piece, not quite finish the ledgers. He'd leave his pantry door open, wander up the stairs and to god knew where. Always, she would slip into his room. She had never managed the wine, but, certainly, she could learn. She had to learn. With O'Brien's ear pressed against the grating and Thomas hovering in every doorway, ever eager for a promotion - she couldn't, wouldn't let them know.

She told herself it was only a lapse, he'd be back to being Mr. Carson, her Mr. Carson, the one she knew, soon.

But it never got better.

He sat opposite her one evening, pouring the wine. They did this every night; he did this every night. But she watched his fingers fumble, watched his stare go blank.

The bottle slipped from his fingers - and she, servant that she was, didn't even flinch as it crashed before her feet.

Neither of them moved for quite some time.

"Mrs. Hughes?" He finally said, confused, and then, perhaps for the first time, he noticed the glass on the floor, the wine on the ground, "I do beg your pardon! Allow me to -" But she had, as was now the ritual, sent him to bed, cleaned the mess up herself.

One could only be a housekeeper for so long. This was a fact. At some point either your heart or your bones gave in. And one could only be both the housekeeper _and _the butler for so long as well. Eventually, something would give.

She forgot to polish the silver; he forgot which way to serve at dinner. Slowly, stitch by stitch, it began to unravel.

They gave him their sympathies and a cottage. "It's for the best, old boy." And she had gone with him because he had promised her this, because he was still her friend, because she would worry about him, she knew, if he wasn't there.

Once, she had allowed herself to imagine what their cottage would look like, where they would place the small things they owned. She had imagined where their belongings would mix, where her pantry would run into his parlor, where they would become one and the same.

Instead, she took his arm and they walked through the rooms over and over again. She hoped it would help him remember them. She hoped it would help him remember everything.

They slept in the same bed. She told herself it was because they didn't have money to spend on a second, because she needed to watch over him in the night. (Which she did, watched his chest rise and fall, his mouth twitch, his fingers polish the air between his hands.) She did not admit that this, too, had been a part of her dream. (Perhaps they were living in sin, it occurred to her. They weren't married, weren't anything more than friends. It was most unconventional; it wasn't sensible – it was wrong. But sometimes, at night, his hand would find its way to her waist, and she couldn't bring herself to push it away.)

Most days he was himself. They got used the leisure, to drinking tea together four times a day instead of once, to more cups of wine in the evening than would have been proper. But she still stood when he entered the room and never once did he call her Elsie. Some things never changed. Some things were engrained beneath their skin.

Other days, he disappeared. He would pace through rooms, thunder at her, ask her where the goddamn stairs were. "We're not at Downton anymore, Mr. Carson," she would try to explain – and her heart would break as she watched him try to understand.

He'd wake up in the middle of the night, slide his hand back, and stagger out of the bed. He was quiet then, in the evenings. And she would sit up, watch him study her – wide eyed and frightened.

And she would know that he had forgotten her.

She would stand and take his hand, shush him slowly like a child, lead him back into the bed. "It's me, Mr. Carson. You do remember me, don't you?" He wouldn't say a word as she pulled the covers over him.

He had promised her retirement, but instead he tired her.

Still, she held his hand, squeezed it tightly. Perhaps if she held him close, he wouldn't fall apart. Perhaps, she thought at night, taking his hand for the first time, fitting it around her waist, he would know in the morning.

She lives in waiting, for the moments when he remembers her name.

* * *

><p><em>This isn't very good. Originally it was just going to be a drabble, but it got a little bit too long for Half the Story, so I just decided to post it on its own. Not really happy with it, but, oh well, we'll live with this, I guess. I just need more CarsonHughes fics in my life.  
><em>


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